The Hair-Trigger Kid by Max Brand (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

head and all four legs, was

leading the others. Now it stretched away further and further, eating up

the ground. Bud Trainor, watching this magnificent animal at work,

groaned deeply. He could see that there was no escape for him from such a

speedster.

 

Why were they bearing north? Toward the south, surely, and away from that

silver racer was their only chance of any escape! Seven men and seven

guns would soon be opening against them!

 

Then, amazed, he heard the Kid’s voice, calling: “Easy, Bud, easy does

it!”

 

He looked across.

 

Aye, the Kid was smiling, almost laughing. Not at Trainor, not at the

enemy, but for the sheer joy of the excitement.

 

Trainor blinked. No matter what the Kid said about maneuvers to get the

law on their side, he simply had gone out and put their heads in the

lion’s mouth, and now the jaws of the lion were closing! Well enough for

him, on his lightning-fast mare—but what of his companion!

 

The next instant, Trainor was ashamed of the thought. Whatever else might

be true about the Kid, he was not one to abandon a comrade in a pinch.

But still, what was the meaning of his present laughter? And why tell him

to ride more slowly?

 

Yes, the Duck Hawk herself was being drawn in.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” shouted Trainor, in a sudden frenzy. “Don’t

you see that they’re takin’ us in the holler of their hands?”

 

“They won’t take us in the hollow of their hands,” answered the Kid,

calmly. “You think they’re riding the finest stuff in the world, but

they’re not. That tired gelding of yours could give a beating to most of

‘em, for that matter! Believe me, old son, when I say that easy does it.

They’ve started behind us, and they’ve made up ground too fast. Look

there!”

 

Trainor, staring toward the northern trio, saw the rearmost of them

suddenly stumble and almost go down.

 

“That’s the pace that tells and the pace that kills,” said the Kid.

“Only, that silver devil in the lead. What horse is that? What man is

that? I ought to know the name of anybody who can ride like that—and

keep such a horse for the riding!”

 

Bud Trainor, only dimly encouraged by the stumbling of one horse—which

now seemed to be running again as strongly as ever, though half a dozen

lengths farther to the rear—stared ahead at that silver beauty, and then

a picture flashed suddenly across his mind of a thing he had seen the

year before. A rodeo, a wild crew of hard-riding punchers, of

leather-handed bulldoggers, of straight shots and hard drinkers. And in

the midst of all the splendid riding, one brilliant figure standing

out—a silver horse which flicked the cleverest riders out of the saddle

as a child snaps wet watermelon seeds from between forefinger and thumb.

Such a horse—a silver beauty! And defying them, making a game of the

contest, laughing at all those skilled buckaroos!

 

Then, out of nowhere, a slender young man appeared, with a dark and

handsome face. A very quietly dressed youth was this, who spoke very

politely, and used good grammar. He wanted to ride that silver tiger, and

people half laughed at him and half pitied him. But ride it he did. Rode

it to a stagger, and bought it afterwards, and departed quietly, as he

had come. Then, afterwards, a murmur had gone around. That murmur was

ringing in his ears, now, and he shouted.

 

“Kid, Kid! D’you know who that is? I tell you, it’s as bad a one as ever

was made! It’s Chip Graham! It’s Chip Graham! I seen him win that hoss at

the Bunting Rodeo a year back—”

 

“Oh, that’s Chip Graham, is it?” said the Kid, nodding, the brightness

never failing in his face. “That’s Chip, is it?”

 

“I’ll swear that’s Chip. Bear south, Kid. We better bear south. We never

can get away from that devil of a Chip Graham. And that hoss of his—you

see—it’s faster’n the Duck Hawk, I guess!”

 

“Keep your hat on,” replied the Kid.

 

He began to measure distances.

 

“Listen to me, partner. I’m going to leave you for a minute. You hear

me?”

 

Bud Trainor blanched, but be did not answer.

 

“I’m going to leave you,” persisted the Kid, “but not for good. This is a

fine lot of hard-riding boys that we’ve met up with today. And I’m a

fool!” he added with a sudden bitterness. “I never should have brought

you this close to them on a tired horse. I’m a fool! I’m too used to Duck

Hawk. And she never says no!”

 

He scanned the group of pursuers to the south, and those to the north.

Those to the left were riding still like so many jockeys, and so were the

men in the north. But the latter had, already, one mount which was being

hopelessly distanced. The horse which had stumbled had been steadily

losing ground. Now it stumbled again, and again, and at last it pulled

up, apparently dead lame.

 

The second of the trio to the right had lost a great distance, also, but

still he was almost abreast of the fugitive. The rider of the silver

charger was now far in front—so far that he was beginning to swing a

little to the south, and so the holding net would soon be completed! Very

fine horsemanship, indeed, but Bud Trainor could not admire it any more

than he admired the death which it was spelling for him and the Kid.

 

And a great, generous impulse suddenly swelled his throat, and he found

himself shouting furiously:

 

“Go on, Kid! You go on and save yourself. Don’t you mind me. Cut loose

with the Duck Hawk and—lemme see if she can outrun that silver devil,

yonder!”

 

For answer, the Kid looked straight at him, a single second. And yet that

look almost paid Bud for death itself.

 

“Keep your gelding at this pace,” said the Kid critically. “He has a pair

of lungs and a set of legs that won’t let him down. Don’t get rattled and

attempt to sprint. Go straight on—and keep edging north! I’m going out

ahead to do what I can. But I won’t leave you, Bud. Not unless gunpowder

sends me on the way.”

 

And he was gone.

 

Bud Trainor, staring after his comrade, saw the mare for the first time

settle to her work, and he could hardly believe his eyes. She seemed to

lower toward the ground as her stride lengthened. There was no

appreciable increase of effort, so far as he could see, no bobbing of the

head, no bumping at the hips. But straight and smooth she blew away from

him, two feet for every one his own mount was traveling.

 

Almost immediately the pursuers were aware of this new maneuver. Bud

could see them frantically flogging their horses. He saw the rider of the

silver beauty turn and look back, and then go to the whip in turn. But it

was of no avail. Either the mare was the much faster animal, or else the

silver flash had been burned up too fast by an early sprint. For now the

Hawk gained with wonderful ease.

 

Chip Graham, if it were he, now turned, metal winked at his head. And the

sound of the gun shot came dimly flying back to the ears of Bud Trainor.

 

He looked, holding his breath, but the Kid had not fallen, had not

winced. He rode on, flattened close to the neck of the mare, weaving a

little in his course. Was that to baffle the marksmanship of the leader,

or was it to take advantage of the best going?

 

To right and left, then, Bud Trainor measured the positions of the

pursuers. For all of their whipping, they did not seem to be gaining

perceptibly. Yes, they were crawling ahead a little, but not much. They

were crawling ahead so far that his own gelding, to be sure, could hardly

be expected to escape from their speed, unless the Kid performed some

miracle.

 

But might he not?

 

Miracles, to those strong young hands, seemed everyday matters!

 

Still the long, rating gallop of the Hawk continued, devouring distance,

and then the inevitable happened.

 

Chip Graham, if it were he, suddenly wheeled his silver horse around. A

man cannot shoot straight from a galloping horse. Above all, he cannot

shoot to the rear. And now the Kid was in close range. So around came the

silver horse, and as it turned, the rider opened fire again.

 

This time there was an answer. Bud Trainor saw the flash of the weapon in

the hand of his comrade, saw the muzzle of it jerk suddenly upward. And

the other, spreading out his hands before him, leaned slowly from the

saddle, and then slid to the ground!

 

Dead?

 

He lay still where he had fallen, while the Kid, sweeping on, caught the

silver stallion by the reins and, completing a small circle, headed

straight back for Trainor in the rear!

 

Then, at last, Bud understood, and his heart leaped in him. He looked

again to the right, to the left, and now he saw still more frantic

efforts on the part of the pursuers.

 

Let them try!

 

He asked the gelding for its last speed, now, and he gave it with a

strong heart. A moment more, and the Kid had turned before him, holding

the silver stallion on his left side, and well out.

 

A circus trick to change mounts at full gallop, but Bud Trainor had spent

all his life among saddles, and stirrups, and bare backs, for that

matter. Shifting his left foot to his right stirrup, he waited for the

proper moment, and then swung out. His left hand missed the pommel and

caught the flashing mane. But his right hand gripped true, and in another

moment, he was on such an animal as he never had backed before.